


Oral Imperative

by foolishgames



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Past Abuse, Post-Movie(s), Sexual Dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4512117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's never let a man fuck her just because she liked him.</p><p>Furiosa offers, and Max accepts, but it's not what either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oral Imperative

It’s an effort to ask. Or, to offer.

“You could stay,” she says. “You could, you could come back to my room.”

She’s let men fuck her before, because they had something she wanted, or because it was easier than a beating or being tied down and taken anyway, but she’s never let a man fuck her just because she liked him.

Max freezes like a rabbit in headlights. He licks his lips, blinks several times, and gives one of his shuddery odd twitches. “That’s -” he says, looking baffled.

She presses her own lips together. “Just an offer,” she says. “You don’t have to.”

He twitches again, looks at something past her left hip, shakes his head. “I’m not - I haven’t,” he says, then looks frustrated. “In a long time. With a woman.”

They’re alone in the gardens, she’s sure of it, but she casts a furtive look around anyway.

“Nor me,” she says. “With a man.” Not since before she became Imperator, when she still need that bargaining chip sometimes.

He stills suddenly, looking at her face, too shrewd by half. “Why?” he says, then shakes his head. “Why me?”

“I trust you,” she says to a nearby potato barrel.

“Mmm,” he says. Then; “D’you want me, though?” - addressed to the beans staked up across the row.

“I asked, didn’t I?” she says, and feels his too-knowing eyes on her.

“Um,” he says, and she hears him inhale and let it out on a heavy exhale. “Can’t give you babies,” he says thoughtfully.

“Not what I want,” she says. “Just, just company.”

He squints. “I’m not good company.”

“Fine,” she says. “Just thought I’d ask.” She turns on her heel, but he groans and puts up a hand, hunching his shoulders.

“See? I’m not good at this,” he says. “People.”

She kicks his ankle. “Not asking you to give a speech.”

He ducks his head, looks at her from under his lashes with a smile. “Okay then,” he says. “If you want, yeah. Okay.”

She meets his eyes and feels something go liquid in her belly; relief, maybe; or nerves. “C’mon then,” she says. “I got some time this afternoon.”

He snorts at her, and she can tell what he’s thinking. Furiosa almost never allows herself leisure time, preferring work over brooding. When she got a lung infection, Cheedo had to sit on her to stop her from leaving her bed to tinker in the dry, dusty garages. Furiosa has time this afternoon because she’s set it aside, and she’s sure Max knows it.

They walk down to her room, bumping shoulders. They get about the Citadel together often nowadays and nobody so much as glances at them, but she feels as if she’s getting away with something today, taking a man to her quarters with intent.

A room to herself with a door that locks securely is one of the few luxuries she’s allowed herself. She sleeps poorly around other people when she sleeps at all; she’ll have to work out a polite way to ask Max to leave after they’re done.

"Okay," she says nonsensically, sliding the bolt home. Breathe in. Breathe out. Max stands awkwardly with his hands clenching by his sides, looking lost. Furiosa squares her shoulders and starts unbuckling her belt. She'll feel more naked than naked without her left arm, but the rest of her clothes are under its straps and buckles.

"Oh," says Max when she sets the arm on the table. The laces of her cinch resist her fingers, annoyingly - she's been putting herself into this thing for a thousand days, why is it suddenly hard? – and then Max's hand closes over hers, and she feels the heat and closeness of his body against her vulnerable back. "Let me?" he says, and she lets him. As it comes loose around her waist and she sucks in the belly-deep breath she always does, his mouth skims warm and soft over the place her neck meets her shoulder.

She makes some sort of sound, and he reaches around her to set the cinch on the table by her arm. She's caged in by him suddenly, curls her toes in her boots, breathes deep. But he doesn't keep her there, shifts to one side so her arm is free and presses his nose against her shoulder, leaves a warm hand low on her back. "How d'you want to do this?" he asks.

She turns her head so their faces are close together. She hadn't thought that far ahead; hadn't expected him to ask. "Take off your clothes?" she says, and he nods, steps back.

"Not much to look at these days," he warns her, shrugging out of his jacket. His clean, threadbare shirt follows, folded neatly onto the table, and he uses his foot to pull her only chair closer so he can sit and pick at the laces of his boots. "You joining me?" he teases, flashing her a little crooked smile, and then goes back to his boots, so he isn't watching her strip. It's on purpose, and she's grateful.

When Joe kept her in the Vault, she was luminously pale, her belly flat and breasts high and skin unmarred and soft. She's got fourteen-thousand days behind her now, in scars and burns and weary flesh, as aggressively unlovely as she could manage. She's strong still, though, and lean, and he'd said yes and come to her room, and he's looking up at her now with wide eyes and a boot hanging forgotten from one hand. She folds her own shirt primly, then pokes him in the thigh with the toe of her boot and says "Pants, too."

"Bossy," huffs Max, but he stands and kicks them off, put his hands on his hips and lets her look at him, colour high in his cheeks.

He's stockily muscled, lean through the torso and thick in the thighs, cock soft between his legs. Most of him paler than his sunburned face and arms, and he has his own story carved out on his body, ink and scarring and the wariness in his posture and the way he folds his hands awkwardly in front of his crotch.

"Sorry," she says, when she realises she's been looking him up and down without moving. "My turn?"

"Umm," says Max when she reaches for her waistband. "Can I?"

She sucks in a breath as he steps into her space, then closer, until they're sharing air. Her breasts brush against him, and when she reaches up to steady herself it's her hand against the bare skin of his shoulder. She bites her lip and he groans, drops his head to rest against hers.

"I want to _kiss_ you," he says, as if she's being extremely cruel.

"Alright," she replies, and he sighs and puts his hands on her waist and his mouth on hers. Kissing she hadn't considered, had forgotten to plan for, but it's easy to lean into the softness of his kiss and the sincerity of his hands. He makes a sweet, content noise as she brings their bodies flush together, and a thrill goes through her at it, how easy it is to make him groan and clutch at her. The kiss turns seeking and urgent, wet, and she hooks her blunted arm around his neck and sinks into it.

"Come to bed," she manages, between breaths. He groans, rubs his hands up and down her back, kisses her again.

She means to draw him down to the thin mattress beside her, but he sinks instead to his knees and reaches for her boots. "Mmm," he says, in the way he has that means he wants it to mean something he's lost the words for. He fumbles at her boots, and she slides her fingers into his hair, pets her thumb against his temple. "Buckles," he says crossly, and puts his forehead on her knee. "Damn – ah." Her left boot, then her right, and then both her sad, threadbare socks. His cool hands on her bare ankles feel strange and intimate, and he looks up at her with a faint proud smile.

"Come to bed," she says again, and he crawls up beside her while she pulls off her trousers and kicks them onto the floor. That’s it, she's naked, and it's ridiculous to feel fearless and big for it, but Max makes a hungry needy noise and pulls her close to kiss her again, and that feeling in her chest might be pride. Or it might be something else; Max is strong but pliant under her, and she's warm all over, her skin humming, clean sweat springing up on her forehead. Their legs tangle together, and she holds herself up on one arm and strokes her hand down his chest, feeling the rumble of his breath and the way it catches when she nips at his mouth.

He slides his hand over her hip and grips at her thigh, urging her closer. They're pressed together all along, now; her breasts are crushed against his chest, her leg over his. She kisses at the soft bristly fuzz of his jaw, scratches her nails through the sparse hair on his belly. He twitches and grunts, and then immediately pretends he hadn't – like she cares if he's ticklish. She does it again because the face he pulls is funny, and when he pouts at her she takes it as an invitation to suck on his lower lip.

“You,” he mumbles. His eyes are shining with humour, and he’s huffing with what might be laughter against her jaw, her throat. She reaches down between them in answer, and Max makes some sort of noise and pulls away a little as she gets a hand on his cock and finds it still soft.

“Huh,” says Max. For a moment they’re both silent, looking down between them at where she’s cradling the whole of him in her palm, the thin warm skin and soft flesh so delicate and unexpected and unthreatening. Max makes another noise she can’t decipher and says, low, “Sorry. I said it had been a while.”

“It’s alright,” say Furiosa, quietly. The courage she had gathered is unequal to this particular vulnerability; she hadn’t anticipated Max’s embarrassment, had assumed that if anybody would be unprepared and in need of reassurance it would be her.

He folds his hand over hers, over his soft prick, and breathes out shakily. She feels it on her bare chest, and remembers that they are both naked together, and that he is looking at her with a rueful, soft expression. “Sorry,” he says again. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. She isn’t precisely unfamiliar with the problem; she had been punished more than once for failing to be a sufficiently stimulating Wife, before the Organic had figured out Joe’s medication. But that was another time, and Max looks quietly abashed when he presses their foreheads together, and she leans into it, trusting and calm.

“Guess I can still be of use,” he says, and before she can work out what the means, he pulls her close and kisses her again - soft and dry and close-mouthed, on her lips and cheeks, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her eye. She shivers. “Is this okay,” he says to the hinge of her jaw, the delicate skin beneath her ear. “God, you - you’re so -”

“It’s good,” she tells him. His hands are restless, stroking her skin, and she doesn’t know what do. She touches his hair, slides her fingers through it, rests her palm on the scarring on his neck. His mouth opens wet and soft against her throat.

“Are you,” she says, and leaves it unfinished, because she doesn’t know quite what to ask. He hums an affirmative anyway, pleased, and nuzzles at her.

“Wait,” he says, sitting up, “I want to -” and without pushing or pressing her at all he has her on her back, laid out long on the bed, and he’s looking at her with such astonishment and wonder that her belly clenches and her heart kicks up a gear.

He’s gentle when he touches her, tender and precise. His lips are soft against the curve of her ribs; his fingers walking careful maps on her thighs. She hisses through her teeth when he scrapes his rough stubble against the curve of her breast, and his eyes light up with pleasure as he does it again. Max puts his mouth places she has no reason to expect any special sensation; the back of her knee, which makes her toes curl; the crook of her ruined arm, very solemnly and watching her face; the silvery, laddered creases and long, low scar on her belly.

The skin of his shoulders is soft but for the scars on his neck. She rubs her thumb against the divot where his spine meets his skull, counts the knobs of his backbone down as he inches his way up to press his nose against her breastbone. His back is thick with scars and ink overlapping and he twitches away when she touches them, so she skims over his bicep instead, touches his cheek.

"You have a lot of skin," says Max nonsensically. He sets his teeth very softly against her breast, licks her nipple, hums happily. It rocks through her like an engine turning over, heat coiling up tight in her belly, and Max does it again and again, lavishing kisses and tender bites on her until she's squirming. She drags him up by the ear so she can kiss him again, and he's laughing messy and sweet into her mouth.

"God, it really must be broken," he says, drawing back to peer down between them again. "Look at you."

By the time he gets down between her legs, it's less surprising than it is inevitable, but she still blinks down at him, not quite sure what went between then and now. His stupid hair is sticking out and he's mumbling to himself as he noses at the crease of her thigh. When he puts his mouth on her, tentatively, she twitches and almost kicks him, out of surprise rather than any particular reaction to the feeling of it.

He grumbles and uses the breadth of his shoulders to nudge her thighs wider, blinking up at her over the length of her body. He makes a soft questioning noise. She touches his hair, lets her palm rest against his forehead.

It starts to make sense as he uses his tongue to unwind her, to open her up for his hungry mouth. He’s as gentle as he’s ever been, sensation rocking through her like a steady wind, and she clenches her fingers so hard she must be hurting him, squeezes her thighs against his ears, swears high and soft and endless under her breath. He’s watching her face through his lashes over the curves of her belly and chest and his gaze makes her feel  - makes her feel -

She’s trembling like she’s been without water for days. Max pauses what he’s doing and she breathes, sucks air into her lungs. He murmurs a query, his mouth smeared wet and pink like he’s been gorging on fresh stone fruit instead of -

She can’t finish a thought. He smiles at her, sweet and dreamy and content, and returns to what he was doing, and Furiosa squeezes her eyes shut and rides it out. Like a storm in the wastes, over and all around her, and Max’s warm hands on her thighs hold her steady and grounded even as he uses his mouth to devastate her. It rises, rises, and rolls over her, peaking for a shattering moment when she thinks she can’t take it a second longer - and then it passes, and she’s jerking away from him.

“There now,” he murmurs, while she shudders. “Yes, lovely, it’s good, it’s so good, look at you.”

Her heel connects with his ribs, and he rolls away, huffing, so she can curl up around her aching vulnerabilities. She’s half-inclined to kick him clear off the bed until she stops feeling so _naked_ , but something in her sparking brain recognises the urge as unfair. She touches his hair again instead, feels the softness of it between her fingers. He kisses her wrist.

“Y’ alright?” he says, after a bit.

Furiosa thinks about it, tweaks his ear. “Mm.” She’s alright.

He shifts around some, stretches, kicks one leg off the bed. “S’good.”

“You?” she remembers to ask.

He goes “Eh,” and heaves one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Still jammed up.”

She snickers with an unexpected memory. “Like that shotgun.” It shouldn’t be funny, even in context, but it tickles her for some reason. Max looks up at her blankly, then frowns as he makes the connection.

“Y’not going to beat me with it, are you,” he grumbles.

She traces the shape of his pouting lower lip. “Get you down in the workshop,” she says instead. “Grease up your gears and clean out the sand, get you running smooth again.”

“Keep saying filthy things like that,” he says. “Y’won’t even need to grease me up.” He does something with his eyebrows she thinks is supposed to be a leer, and she has to turn her face into the mattress to hide her laughter. She feels his teeth on her fingers, and then his hand splayed on her belly, fond.

She’ll need to get him to leave soon, so she can put herself back together with this new thing she owns about herself. But it’s okay for now to have him in her bed, nibbling on what he can reach of her, and touching her like it’s easy and sweet and costs him nothing. She outlines the shape of his ear, the hinge of his prickly jaw.

It’s not what she expected of him at all; it’s something new.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to apologise for the title which, like most things, is aka_vee's fault.  
> As ever, on tumblr at fools-game


End file.
